


Must

by languageintostillair



Series: After an Almost [9]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, it is also THREE chapters long now, this is the reward for everything i put them/you through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24838981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/languageintostillair/pseuds/languageintostillair
Summary: “I’m definitely not opposed to spending the majority of our stay in this bed. I paid for late check-out and everything.”He must have seen her stiffen, and avert her gaze—she’d done so before she could stop herself—because he follows that with a quiet, “We don’t have to.”She takes a deep breath. “I want to. I want to try, at least.” They’d talked it through as best as they could—her mind is so clouded with fears and insecurities that she can’t say she feels even eighty percent ready—but she trusts Jaime, she feels safer than she’s ever felt with him, and they’d agreed they could stop at any point. She reaches for his hand and squeezes it, to stem the tide of anxious thoughts.Jaime. Jaime’s here. He won’t leave.“Later,” she says. “Tonight.”
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Series: After an Almost [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662541
Comments: 91
Kudos: 215





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I didn't think I'd STILL be writing this at the end of June, but here I am. I hope this is enough of a reward for all the suffering I put you through with this series!

The first word that comes out of Brienne’s mouth when she opens the door to their hotel room is: “No.”

Which means, of course, that the first word to come out of Jaime’s mouth is: “Yes.”

“Absolutely not. This is _too much_.” She turns to walk back out the door. “We’re downgrading to a regular room right—”

“Oh no you don’t,” Jaime says, catching her by her waist and swivelling her back around. “I’ve paid for one night in this room, and we’re going to enjoy every luxury it has to offer.”

“This is not a _room_ , Jaime. I’m pretty sure this is bigger than my _apartment_.” It definitely _is_ if they include the _roof terrace_ , but she can’t even begin to process the existence of that right now. Instead, she makes a detour through a doorway into what turns out to be the bedroom. Because this place, unlike every other hotel room she has ever been in, has a _separate_ bedroom. She bypasses the bed (something else she can’t process right now, for entirely different reasons), and walks through another doorway to find—

A walk-in closet.

She looks down at the small duffel bag that she brought with her.

 _Seven hells._ How is she supposed to enjoy this luxury?

“How much did you pay for this exactly?” she calls out to Jaime, while she tries to comprehend the type of person—and the type of _lifestyle_ —that would require a walk-in closet during a hotel stay. There are so many _shelves_. And _drawers_. and _hangers_.

“Trust me, you’re better off not knowing,” Jaime calls back. “Or rather, _I’m_ better off not telling, because you will _definitely_ kill me.”

She steps back out into the bedroom. “How in the world did you manage to book this suite with three weeks’ notice?”

“I got lucky. They said they had a last-minute cancellation.”

“It’s _too much_ ,” she repeats.

“No, it isn’t,” he replies, walking towards her. “It’s exactly what we deserve.”

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t get to use _that_ argument in _this_ situation. It’s only our six-month anniversary.”

Jaime meets her in the middle of the room and puts his arms around her waist. “Six months _officially_. And it took us a hell of a lot more time and a hell of a lot more _work_ to get here. We deserve this.”

“We’ve been for _three_ sessions of therapy, Jaime, that’s hardly worth—”

He groans, drops his arms, and collapses onto the bed. “Have mercy on me, Brienne. You know I mean more than just the therapy.” He pushes himself up onto his forearms. “ _Enjoy this_. Or I’ll _make_ you.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?” The question is barely out of her mouth and she’s already regretting it. One thing their therapist mentioned she could work on, however, is asking questions even if she’s afraid of the answers. And she’s nothing if not a hard worker.

“I have my ways,” Jaime smirks—oh, she _definitely_ regrets asking—then proceeds to smooth his hands over the sheets. “Gods, this is comfortable. You should try it, babe.”

“ _Babe_?” she scoffs. “I thought you _didn’t_ want me to break up with you.”

“We’re supposed to figure out how to better negotiate your boundaries, remember?”

“By _communicating_ with me, not by _annoying_ me. And pet names are a non-negotiable boundary.”

Jaime just grins, then shifts onto his side and props his head up with one hand. He sweeps his other palm dramatically over the sheets again, and wiggles his eyebrows at her. “Come on, _Brienne_ ,” he purrs.

She wants to strangle him. But that would be a terrible waste of those three sessions of therapy, and the three they’ve booked for the next month. So she sets her duffel bag down, flops herself on the bed too, and—

“ _Oh_ ,” is all she can say. “Oh gods.”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

It is. It’s so nice that she has the thought that she may never be truly happy in her own bed again, or Jaime’s for that matter. “I hate you. I hate that you brought me here.”

“No, you don’t,” Jaime teases. “You _love_ me. You said so, and you can’t take it back.”

She sighs. He’s taken every opportunity to bring it up since she told him about a week ago. In fairness, it was a surprise to them both that it came only two weeks after The Big Fight. She’d been so uncertain at the time— _when I think of love_ , she’d explained to Jaime, _all those bad feelings come back_ —and neither of them had expected her to overcome that barrier so soon. And then she had just let it slip out unthinkingly one evening, in the middle of a conversation. Or perhaps not so unthinkingly, considering how much she _had_ thought about it since The Big Fight. _Jaime, you know I love you, but_ —and then she froze, and he froze, and she hadn’t known what else to do but hide herself in his bathroom for twenty minutes after, until she’d calmed down enough to comprehend the enormity of what just happened. She almost jumped out of her skin when she emerged to find Jaime standing right outside, but he’d looked so nervous that she had to kiss him—she hadn’t felt ready to say it again in words—and then he’d implored her to stay over, even though they’d already agreed that she would. The first thing out of his mouth the next morning was, _did you mean it?_ And she nodded in response, and he smiled stupidly back, and it was really very sweet up until he decided to get all smug about it, which took all of an hour and hasn’t stopped since.

“I can love you and still hate you for bringing me here,” she says, pushing a finger into his chest.

“Not so keen on downgrading anymore, are you?”

“If we’d done it earlier, then I could have lived the rest of my life without knowing this bed existed.” She slides herself backwards to test out a pillow and— “Fuck. Let’s stay here forever.”

“I’m rich, but I’m not _that_ rich,” Jaime laughs, as he shifts himself to find a pillow too. “Though I’m definitely not opposed to spending the majority of our stay in this bed. I paid for late check-out and everything.”

He must have seen her stiffen, and avert her gaze—she’d done so before she could stop herself—because he follows that with a quiet, “We don’t have to.”

She takes a deep breath. “I want to. I want to try, at least.” They’d talked it through as best as they could—her mind is so clouded with fears and insecurities that she can’t say she feels even eighty percent ready—but she trusts Jaime, she feels safer than she’s ever felt with him, and they’d agreed they could stop at any point. She reaches for his hand and squeezes it, to stem the tide of anxious thoughts. _Jaime. Jaime’s here. He won’t leave._ “Later,” she says. “Tonight.”

“Tonight,” he echoes, and squeezes her hand too. “In the meantime, all we need to do is _relax_. You brought your swimsuit, didn’t you?”

“Reluctantly,” she grumbles. “I don’t find swimming pools _relaxing_ , Jaime. We’ve been through this.” If she’s exercising, that’s fine. If she’s alone, that’s fine too. But the idea of being in nothing but a swimsuit, trying to _relax_ with all these _people_ around—

“What if I told you we have a pool to ourselves?”

She turns her head to stare at him. “You’re kidding.”

“I don’t think it’s particularly big, but…” and he points at the door that leads out to the roof terrace, so she rolls off the bed and heads in that direction. She opens the door, steps out to a breathtaking view of the city and— _seven hells_ , they have a _pool_. It’s tiny, but it’s a _pool_.

Jaime’s arms slip around her waist from behind. “You won’t have to worry about anyone looking at you,” he whispers in her ear. “Besides me, of course. I know you’re still trying to get used to that part, but—”

“I love you,” she says, and they both know it’s the first time she’s said so with such conviction.

“Is that all it took?” he chuckles. “I should have booked this suite much sooner.”

“It’s not _that_ , it’s—” She turns to face him, places her hands on his shoulders. “I know you’ve been trying really hard to… to accommodate me. And all my… issues. My walls.”

He lifts a hand to her face, strokes her cheek with the back of his fingers. “You do the same for me.”

She frowns. “I do?”

“You don’t realise it, do you?” he asks, and she shakes her head. “I’d wondered. Maybe it just comes so naturally to you.”

“What do you mean?” Brienne asks, sliding her hands down his back.

Jaime looks up to the sky and exhales. “It’s… I don’t know. It’s in all the small things, I suppose. Replying to my texts all the time, and telling me when you can’t so I don’t worry. Or… the way you smile and roll your eyes at my stupid jokes. Trusting me to pick which movies to watch, and which restaurants to eat at, and being willing to _try_ , even when you have this feeling you’re going to hate it. And—” he tucks her hair behind her ear— “and I know it’s difficult for you to… to allow someone to touch you. And I’m—well. Touch is… important to me. So, regardless of what we have or haven’t done, I feel like—again, I feel like you’ve really _tried_ for me. And it… it means a lot.”

She buries her face in his neck. “Shit, Jaime. You’re going to make me cry again.”

“As long as it’s for good reasons, this time.”

She lifts her head back up, wipes a couple of tears from her eyes. “I hardly ever think about any of those things as—as _accommodating_ you. I mean, I did most of that when we were just friends, too. I always assumed—I know this is the only relationship I’ve ever been in, but I always assumed partners just… do things like that for each other.”

“Maybe,” Jaime shrugs. “To me, it feels good, you know? Special, even. When you do those things, it makes me feel like—like I’m worth all that effort. Without me having to bend over backwards to earn it. Not that I wouldn’t do that for you, but—it feels like you’d accept me exactly as I am. Does that make sense?”

“It does,” she replies, running one palm up and down his back. She’s always been aware that Jaime has this deep-seated need to be… reassured, she supposes she could call it. To believe that he’s _worth the effort_ , though all those things he mentioned don’t even seem like much effort to her. And she knows exactly how he feels, doesn’t she? She knows how difficult it is to believe that one might actually _deserve_ to be treated in those ways. To be loved so freely by another person.

“I just want you to know that—well, we’ve spoken about this in therapy, but I really haven’t been as frustrated as you think I’ve been,” Jaime says, tightening his hold on her waist. “Like you said, most of the time, I don’t really think about it as accommodating you. When I said those things to you, I—I was just… a lot of it came out of my own fears, too. I shouldn’t have shifted all the blame to you the way I did. I _don’t_ blame you.”

 _You should_ , Brienne’s mind tells her mutinously, and she has to take a moment to silence it. “I guess—” she sighs. “For all these months, it’s just felt like there’s been this huge thing that I couldn’t give you. But I just kept telling you I wasn’t ready, and telling myself too, and hoping that there would be this magic moment when everything would finally click and I’d—”

He puts his hands on her cheeks. “Hey. I don’t want you to—to think of it as something you have to _give_ me. I want it to be something that you want, too. And if tonight is meant to be some kind of—of _offering_ , then I—”

“No!” she interjects. “No. I just—I think it’s time. Or rather, I think the only right time is when I decide it is. And I’m deciding.”

“Good,” Jaime smiles, and she can feel some tension leave his body. “That’s—that’s good. Well. In the meantime…” He tips his head at the pool. “Want to get pruney with me?”

She wrinkles her nose. “That doesn’t sound inviting at all.”

“It’ll be a bonding activity.” He steps back and takes her hand to lead them back inside. “Simultaneous pruning. We’ll have matching fingers by the end of it.”

“ _Stop_ ,” she giggles. “You’re making it sound very unsexy.”

“You want it to sound sexy?” he asks, looking back at her meaningfully. “I can definitely do sexy.”

Brienne pulls her hand from his and gives him a playful shove. “Just go change, will you?”

“ _Fine._ ” He points towards the bedroom. “I can change in there, if you want to take the bathroom.”

“The bathroom is going to be ridiculous, isn’t it,” she replies with a sigh, and Jaime flashes her a grin as he backs away.

Of course the bathroom is ridiculous. It’s the most luxurious and tastefully designed bathroom she’s ever been in, all sleek marble surfaces and geometric vases filled with fresh white flowers and fancy soaps that would probably cost her an arm and a leg if she ever tried to buy them in a regular store. There’s a spacious shower area in the corner—with a rain shower, of course—but most ridiculous of all is the giant custom-built marble bathtub standing right in the middle. It’s so giant that it might actually fit both her and Jaime comfortably, tall as they are.

Not that she’s thinking of taking baths with Jaime.

Well, _now_ she is.

Until she takes off her clothes, and forces herself to look in the mirror. The lighting in the bathroom is a stark white, contemporary and unforgiving, and Brienne almost winces at her own reflection. It’s every imperfection served up on a sleek marble platter.

At least most of it will be submerged in water if she’s in a tub, or a pool.

Not in a bed, though.

She pulls on her swimsuit, a simple blue one-piece that, if nothing else, emphasises the raw strength of her body. She tries to focus on that—her strength, the definition of each muscle, the power contained in the breadth of her shoulders—and all of a sudden she recalls how Jaime looks at her sometimes when they’re at the gym, or when she’s in just a tank top and shorts at home, and…

_It feels like you’d accept me exactly as I am._

Brienne turns away from her reflection before she can spiral any further, and makes her way out of the bathroom. As brightly as she can, she announces, “You have to see this bathtub, Jai—”

She doesn’t need a mirror to know that she’s gone red all over.

“What the hell are you wearing,” she says, deadpan, before she can even think about how rude that must sound.

“Swim trunks,” Jaime replies cheerfully, taking no offense at her rhetorical question. “For going in the pool. Like we decided.”

“They seem very… tight.” And small. Well, the _trunks_ are small ( _Seven save me_ ). They’re also cut a lot higher on the thighs and a lot lower on the hips than the boxer briefs she’s seen him in, and it had taken her _months_ to get used to being around him when he’s in just his underwear.

He sticks his thumbs into the trunks where they sit on his hips, stretches the material and lets it go with a _thwack_. “I think they fit just right.”

“Gods, why even bother wearing them?” she mutters.

“Well, if you say so—” and he sticks his thumbs back in and begins to push the trunks down.

“No!” she practically shouts, and covers her eyes. “Damn it, Jaime!”

“You’ll have to see me naked sooner or later!” he laughs as he approaches her.

“Later! I pick later!” _Fucking hells, this man will be the death of me._

She feels his fingers encircle her wrists, and tug them gently away from her eyes. “You look good,” he says, his voice low, and she can feel herself blush a shade darker. “This colour—it looks nice on you. Matches your eyes.”

“It’s—it’s just a—it’s nothing,” she stammers.

His eyes scan down her body, slow, slower still as they make their way back up again. “I think I’d know if you were wearing nothing.”

She wants to crawl under the couch and hide there for the next hour. “S-sunscreen,” she manages to say.

“Yes,” he says, still in that low voice. “Sunscreen. Do you need help?”

“Maybe my—my back.”

“Mine too.”

If she had to pick an adjective to describe how she applies the lotion to Jaime’s back, that adjective would be _functional_. If she had to pick one to describe how Jaime applies the lotion to hers, it would be—she shudders internally— _sensual_.

She resists the urge to scold him for it.

As she dips her feet in the pool, she thinks that urge is much weaker than it might have been, just three weeks ago. 

Generally speaking, relaxation doesn’t come easy to Brienne. Something about it feels wrong, somehow—like she’s wasting valuable time—and besides, it gives her mind too much freedom to roam. But it doesn’t feel that way with Jaime, not today in this pool. They spend the next couple of hours in the water or near it, talking about nothing in particular. She finds that they can reminisce about those first few years of friendship without her feeling the pain of an opportunity lost. When they kiss, she wants to remember the taste of it, the chlorine between their lips, intermingling on their tongues, new and familiar all at once. And maybe this wouldn’t seem adventurous to anyone else, but she feels brave enough to wrap her legs around Jaime’s hips. Though it’s still a little awkward with the length of them, she relishes how weightless she can feel, how she can forget all these things about her body that have always bothered her, and let Jaime embrace her, _carry_ her, as if she were a woman half her size. He tells her he’s strong enough to carry her on dry land too, and she thinks she just might believe him. And perhaps, _perhaps_ she lets his hands drift across her lower back, below her waist, drift across the curve of the flesh there. Perhaps she accepts rather than ignores the pressure she feels where her legs part and meet the juncture of his thighs. Jaime makes no mention of it beyond a hiss when she adjusts herself, until she does so perhaps a little _too_ intentionally, and his fingertips dig into her shoulder blade as he says, “Fuck. You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?”

“I thought you said those trunks fit you just right,” she reminds him, tilting her head at him with all the innocence she can muster. There’s something in the water that makes her feel _daring_.

“Most of the time,” he replies, “when I don’t have a cunt pressed up against my cock.”

She leaps off him. “Jaime!” she exclaims, splashing water in his direction.

He splashes water right back at her. “Serves you right for _grinding_ on me!”

“I was not _grinding_ ,” she corrects him, and folds her arms. “I was just… sitting.”

“ _Sitting._ Really.” He drifts towards her. “So you weren’t… positioning yourself in a strategic way.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, backing away, only to realise she’s reached the end of the pool.

He’s right in front of her now, standing, and he brings his arm out of the water to rest a fingertip in the middle of her chest. Her arms are outstretched along the pool’s edge, and she grips the tile a little tighter in response. Jaime meets her eyes, and there’s something searching in it, some element of _you can tell me to stop_. But she only stares back, as defiantly as she can manage, and then that searching look is gone, and his finger begins to draw a line down her chest. Her breath quickens. What time is it now? The sun is bathing the sky in a rich gold; it must be past five. It isn’t quite night yet— _later_ , she’d told him, _tonight_ —but they’re teetering on the edge of it. They have a dinner booked for seven, he’d told her just now. It won’t take two hours for his finger to go wherever it needs to go, will it?

“Are you sure—” _lower—_ “you weren’t trying to—” _lower—_ “find the right—” _lower—_ “point?”

His finger is just below her navel now. Despite the water, despite her swimsuit between them, she imagines she can feel his skin on hers.

“What… what point might that be?” she asks, her voice quivering slightly.

 _Lower_.

“I don’t know, Brienne.”

_Lower._

“Maybe somewhere around…”

His finger rotates, curls up slightly—

“Here.”

Her breath hitches, and she can’t help but flinch, just a little—from fear, or desire, she can’t quite tell. That searching look reappears in Jaime’s eyes; disappears when she doesn’t move further. He steps in a little nearer, and she can feel his breath on her cheek. “How close am I?” he whispers.

“C-close,” she whispers back.

And then he retracts his hand.

A tiny _no_ escapes her.

“We should get ready for dinner,” he tells her, with that same innocence she’d given him when she said, _I thought you said those trunks fit you just right_ —which is to say, no innocence at all. He pushes himself out of the pool, sits on the ledge beside her, and she turns to place her elbows on the edge only to realise that the one thing in her eye line is—

She whips her head up, stares intently at anything, _everything_ above his waist. “Isn’t dinner at seven?” she asks.

“It _starts_ at seven. They might come in to prepare the table before that, though.”

“We’re eating _here_?”

He nods, and leans back on his hands, which presents an added challenge for Brienne to keep her eyes above his waist. “You can book a five-course dinner service for this suite. Comes with a wine pairing too. Though we might want to go easy on that part, if we want to… you know. Stay lucid for later.”

She’s too preoccupied with the fact that they’ll have a private five-course dinner to address the _later_ that they should stay lucid for. “Are you _sure_ you aren’t rich enough to book this room for the rest of our lives?”

One corner of his mouth curls upwards. “For the rest of our lives?”

 _Shit_. Brienne pushes herself up out of the pool, and almost stumbles as she moves to stand. “We—we should get ready for dinner,” she sputters.

Thankfully, Jaime doesn’t press the issue. “We should,” he says, standing too. “I definitely need a cold shower. To deal with… the fit of my trunks.”

She feels a chill ripple through her body, and tries to convince herself that it’s just the water evaporating off her skin. “You… you can go first if you want. I’ll just rinse off quick—”

“Or we could—” and then he stops.

“What?”

“Nothing. Never mind. Tonight.”

_Oh._

She reaches for the towels they’d left on a nearby chair, and hands one to Jaime. While they’re wiping themselves dry, she asks him quietly:

“How—how much time do we have?”

Jaime pauses. Then, he looks down to check his phone. “An hour, maybe. To be safe.”

“Is that—I don’t want to rush anything—”

“Me neither. Maybe we shouldn’t—”

“What can we do that’s—”

“I could—continue what I was—”

“And would I do the same for—”

“You don’t have to—”

“No, I think I—I’d be open to—”

“Good. I mean, that’s—I’d like that.”

The walk from the pool to the bathroom seems to last longer than an hour, and Brienne half expects to hear a knock at the door announcing their dinner. Eventually, though, they make it to their destination. Behind her, Jaime says, _shit, I think we could both fit in that bathtub_ , and he grunts a half-hearted reply.

She approaches the sink,

looks in the mirror,

observes herself lit by that unforgiving light.

She turns away. He’ll have to see her, all of her, at some point. That some point might as well be now, and she doesn’t need unforgiving reminders in the process. She lifts one hand to her shoulder, slips a thumb under the strap and pulls—

“Let me,” Jaime says, coming nearer. “Is that… okay?”

She nods, and bites her lip. Her hand falls to her side.

“Whatever you’re scared of—it isn’t going to happen.”

She nods again.

He slips his fingers under one strap, and the other.

( _Don’t cover yourself._ )

And then he pulls. Both at the same time.

If the walk to the bathroom lasted more than an hour, then this feels like five.

( _Don’t cover yourself._ )

She closes her eyes. She can’t help it.

She feels the fabric scrape her shoulders, her arms.

( _Don’t cover yourself._ )

The cool air hits her chest.

Her breasts.

Her nipples.

( _Don’t—_ )

Jaime sucks in a breath.

 _Disappointed?_ she thinks.

“Not even close,” he replies.

She’d said that out loud.

She opens her eyes.

He’s still pulling the swimsuit down, but his gaze is fixed on her chest—

Like he _wants_ to look there.

She lifts her arms out of the straps, just as he releases them.

“Please,” he asks, reaching one hand up to her chest. “Can I—”

She nods.

His thumb—

_Fuck._

She gasps.

Her hand finds the counter behind her.

“Sensitive,” he murmurs.

“Shut up,” she murmurs back.

She closes her eyes again.

His thumb again. His other thumb, on the other—

Brushing.

Circling.

Between his thumb and index finger—

A slight arch in her back.

His palms caressing—

A sigh.

His palms moving lower.

(A sense of loss.)

His fingers curling into the fabric.

Past her navel.

Then her hips.

Droplets of water, freed, collecting on hair—

“Sorry I don’t…” she says.

“Doesn’t matter.”

He keeps pulling. Past her thighs.

A lingering on the soft skin at the back of her knees.

Down her calves.

To her ankles.

She opens her eyes again. Jaime is at her feet.

She steps out of her swimsuit.

_Alright. That’s all of me._

“Alright?” he asks, as he stands.

She nods.

He puts his thumbs into his trunks, pauses, looks at her. “Want to do the honours?”

She shakes her head. She can’t explain why.

He’s quick. Much quicker than he was with her.

He steps out of his trunks.

_Alright. That’s all of him._

She doesn’t know where to look.

Her hand gravitates off the counter, and back again.

If Jaime saw, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Shower?” he says, and she nods.

He takes her hand, the one still hanging at her side. Leads her to the shower area in the corner.

Her back is against the marble.

He turns on the shower, tests the temperature.

Turns off the water.

“You first?” he asks. “Or me?”

She doesn’t know if he means the shower, or the other matter. Something possesses her to say: “B-both?”

He smirks. “Both.”

He turns on the shower again.

 _Both_. She’d thought it was a bold choice. Maybe part of her wanted to impress Jaime by saying so. It does seem good at first—she’s so distracted that she doesn’t overthink her every movement beyond the ups and downs of her fist. She doesn’t overthink the fact that _there’s a cock in her hand, and it belongs to Jaime_. But soon, they’re fumbling to find the right position, and struggling to give each other instructions when there’s a constant barrage of water hitting their faces and flowing into their mouths, and _fuck this sleek marble_ because she almost slips at one point and the first thing she does is yank on Jaime’s shoulder so that _he_ almost slips too, and then he shouts because she squeezed a bit too hard, and then _she_ shouts because his fingers—she doesn’t even _know_ what happened—and then she has to back out of the shower and say:

“Stop.”

Jaime slams his hand on the tap. “Stop, you don’t want to do this?”

“Stop, we need a _better way_ to do this.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and she wonders if she’s bruised his ego in some way. Then he says: “Get in the corner.”

It makes sense. There’ll be better support, she supposes, with the wall behind her. She shifts backwards, and Jaime shifts with her, and she shuffles her feet further apart, and—

He drops to his knees.

“What are you—”

“Was going to save this for tonight, but—”

His mouth.

His _mouth._

His lips, his tongue, his teeth, his _all of it_ , his kissing, his nibbling, his nuzzling, his licking, his sucking, his _all the words she would otherwise hate to use but they’re exactly what he’s doing right now and it feels insane_ , his fingers on the backs of her thighs, his fingers pressing into her ass, his fingers gripping her calf, (her fingers in his hair,) his fingers in her— _his fingers in her cunt_ , and in truth, in truth she should tell him that it doesn’t feel as good as _his tongue on her clit_ , but she’ll tell him later, _later_ , because she’s _sure as hell going to make him do this later_ , and why is dinner at seven, dinner shouldn’t be at seven, dinner should be at _whatever the fuck time it is when she’s had five successive orgasms_ , and _why the fuck did she wait all this time when she could have had him do this to her so much earlier_ —okay, she knows why, she knows it would have destroyed her if he had done this to her at any point before this one, she knows the way he’s destroying her now is the best form of destruction and one that couldn’t have happened if they hadn’t had their Big Fight and their three sessions of therapy, and _ah, ah, fuck,_ she’s shaking, that’s one orgasm down and four more to go, “Don’t you dare fucking stop,” _I wasn’t planning to_ , he might have said if he’d decided not to listen to her very clear instructions, and _fuck_ why isn’t the second one coming, _why isn’t the second one coming, what was he doing just now when she had the first one,_ “No—no fingers,” maybe that will work, and his fingers are gone and now he’s working harder with his tongue, his lips, and _still_ it feels like she’s just there but _not quite_ , “Jaime, I _can’t_ ,” her fingers tighten their grasp on his hair and he breaks from her ( _don’t_ ) to ask her what’s wrong, “I’m close but—” comes out like a whine, and he doesn’t respond because he’s back on her, _good_ , but it’s _slow_ , that isn’t _right_ , no it is, it _is_ , it’s deliciously slow, and there it is, _there it is_ , it’s a gentle one, an echo, a ghost, but she got there in the end. He got her there in the end.

“I wanted five,” she says, once she catches her breath.

“You wanted _five_?”

“I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“We’re on a time limit here, Brienne. Dinner at seven, remember?”

She looks down at him. Down further. It’s his turn—

Oh. He’d already— “When did you…”

He follows her gaze downwards. “… Well. You could take it as a compliment.”

“I barely _did_ anything.”

“Do you _know_ how long I’ve been waiting to do that to you? Just the fact that you were writhing against my mouth—”

“Don’t _describe_ it, Jaime, gods—”

“Did you enjoy it?”

Suddenly, she can’t say a word. The answer is _yes_ , obviously, and she can _think_ it, but she can’t seem to _say_ it.

Jaime stands, groans a little as he does so. “Did I do something—”

She shakes her head.

He frowns. “Then why—”

She kisses him. There’s nothing else she can do. It’s a clumsy kiss, forceful, not at all good. But she’s still weak in the knees, damn it. It’s the only _yes_ she can give.

 _He tastes different_ , she thinks absently.

Then she realises why.

She winds her arms around his neck, and kisses him harder.

When she finally comes up for air, he says: “Is that your answer?”

She nods. That’s her answer—a kiss; its clumsiness; the knowledge that Jaime won’t hold its clumsiness against her.

“Good,” he says, breaking into a smile. Then, he _winks_ at her. “We’ll try for five later.”

“I was kidding,” she whispers, even though she wasn’t really.

“Well.” He runs a finger lazily down her back. “It’s something to aim for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I love really short sentences, and really long ones, in addition to very badly wishing I could spend a weekend in a fancy hotel suite. Also, who knows if they will they ever actually bang. I'm at 8,200 words total, with at least 2.5 more scenes to write, and all they seem to want to do is give each other handjobs? THEY'RE NOT EVEN IN BED YET
> 
> Thanks to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) for lots of reassurance! I made her read through this chapter... so many times...


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is now three chapters because... you know why.

They actually do get around to showering, though they don’t make another attempt to do so together. That experiment had been enough of a disaster for one afternoon, even if it produced very pleasant consequences. Brienne does, however, refrain from rushing Jaime out of the bathroom when it’s her turn. He is taking an inordinately long time to dry himself off, and sneaking looks at her in the meantime, and of course she isn’t entirely comfortable with this—he’d only _just_ seen her fully naked for the first time—but it seems ludicrous to make any mention of it considering what had just happened in the corner.

When she’s done, she’s tempted to wrap herself in the hotel’s lush bathrobe and have that be her dinner attire, until Jaime reminds her that dinner isn’t going to be your average room service. There’s five courses to be had, and five glasses of wine, which means they’ll have to be served five separate times at least. She might not want to be dressed in a bathrobe through all of that, he says, though he’d be happy to join her if she decides to do so anyway. Brienne declines, and opts for the roomy dress that she’d packed—a good option for a five-course meal—but skips the makeup that she skips most days anyway. Jaime, on his part, opts for a long-sleeved crew neck and fitted chino shorts. They’d look completely out of place in the actual restaurant—they’re wearing the hotel’s slippers, for heavens’ sake—but what’s the point of having a private dinner if they can’t dress in whatever feels most comfortable?

Soon enough, there’s a knock at the door; a server comes in to set up the table, and is followed shortly by a sommelier. It’s all so formal and attentive and courteous that Brienne finds herself tucking her slippered feet further under her chair in embarrassment. Fortunately, she’s far too famished to feel this embarrassment too keenly, and it dissipates as soon as the first course arrives. She isn’t particularly learned when it comes to food _or_ wine—she can only nod along to the detailed explanations, half of which she only vaguely understands—but she knows enough to enjoy a good meal. This one is _better_. It’s inventive without being pretentious, every course so stunningly plated that she feels a slight guilt for having to consume it. The portions are small enough that there’s always room for more, large enough that she’s never left unsatisfied. At the back of her mind, she appreciates the thoughtful portion sizes for reasons apart from culinary gratification. She wants to feel just-full-enough at the end of this dinner. She wants to feel in control of her body tonight.

They’re left alone to enjoy each course, which is ideal for two reasons. One: there are at least three points in the meal when she finds herself moaning audibly, which causes Jaime to smirk, or laugh, or raise an eyebrow at her. Until he actually tastes that impeccably-seared scallop, or that beef that seems to melt in her mouth, or that ice cream that is made out of a plant she’d never even heard of before this evening, and then _he’d_ be the one moaning, and she’d be the one thinking of what he’d done to her in the bathroom just now, and what he’d promised to do to her later, and isn’t this scallop delectable? This beef is delectable. This ice cream is _delectable_. (Why is she using the word _‘delectable’_? Has she ever used it before this evening?) Two: Jaime won’t stop drawing his bare foot up her calf, or sliding his hand up her thigh, or running a finger along the back of her hand, or indulging in any manner of physical contact that seems just on the edge of appropriate for the dinner table. She supposes he probably wouldn’t attempt to do any of those things if they had witnesses, but she’s glad she has no opportunity to find out if he _would_.

Just over two hours later, the meal is over.

The table is cleared.

Their server bids them good night.

It’s just her and Jaime again, in this suite that is bigger than her apartment.

She excuses herself to go to the bathroom. She’s in there for longer than she really needs to be, and spends most of that time pacing around the giant bathtub, biting her nails.

She’s nervous again.

Why is she nervous again?

Jaime’s _seen_ her. She’s seen _him_.

He’d had his mouth on her.

How different could it be? There would simply be… an additional step. And she’s crossed the biggest hurdle, hadn’t she? Him seeing her?

_Get it together, Brienne._

Jaime smiles at her when she comes out of the bathroom, and she can only return it weakly. He heads into the bathroom himself—taking her hand and squeezing it as he passes—so she sits herself on the couch to wait for him. He must have noticed her hesitation, because when he’s done, he doesn’t try to lead them into the bedroom. Instead, he takes his place beside her on the couch, stretches one arm across her shoulders, and loudly proclaims that he’s too full. She’s well aware that this is an overstatement—they have similar appetites, and the meal filled her up just right—and she’s also well aware that despite the five glasses of wine, she’s never felt more lucid in her life.

_There’s no rush_ , she reminds herself. It’s only nine thirty, and they’ll need some time to—to digest, won’t they? So she reaches for the remote and switches on the TV, but ten minutes pass and they can’t find anything worth watching. She signs into their streaming service, but another ten minutes pass and they can’t commit to any one show, not even the ones on their watchlist. She just keeps scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling—she’ll find something eventually, she _will_ —until Jaime takes the remote from her, and switches off the TV.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, placing a hand on her knee, right at the hem of her dress. “Do you… not want to do this?”

“No—I mean, I do.”

“Are you too tired?”

“No. It’s not that.”

His hand is warm on her thigh. “Is there something else you need?”

“I’m… not sure. Just—a bit of time, I think.”

“Anxious?”

A nervous huff. “Always.”

“I’d say we could make use of that giant bathtub to calm you down, but I think we’ve had enough pruning for one day.”

She actually laughs out loud at that. “What is it with you and _pruning_?”

“I like that word. It’s funny.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not using it correctly.”

“It _doesn’t_ refer to two people getting their fingers all wrinkly when they spend too much time in water?”

“No,” she laughs again. He’s being intentionally silly, she knows, but she’ll play along. “It’s for trimming plants, Jaime.”

“Ah. How about… _pickling_?”

“I suppose that’s a little more apt,” she concedes. “Though having a bath in brine doesn’t sound very appealing.”

“Maybe all those juices would be invigorating.”

“Please don’t use the word _juices_ in relation to _baths_.”

Jaime tilts his head to one side, then the other, as he lets the syllables roll off his tongue. “Jui-ces. Pick-ling. Pru-ning.”

_He’s gone off the deep end._ “What are you _doing_?”

“I don’t know, Brienne. They all sound like good words to me. Good… distractions.”

She furrows her brow. “Distractions? From what?”

“From… whatever goes on in your head.”

And that’s when she realises his hand is much further up her thigh than it was a minute ago.

Her dress is also much further up her thigh than it was a minute ago.

“ _That’s_ your idea of seduction?” she says. She’d meant to sound incredulous, but her voice is trembling far too much for that.

“I haven’t gotten to that part yet.”

She hears it—the change in his tone. His hand is still now, though she can feel his index finger curl, then straighten. Curl again. Light strokes. She might call it tender, if tenderness wasn’t the farthest thing from her mind. She can think only of Jaime’s finger in the pool this afternoon, when it drew a line from her chest down to her—

A shiver runs through her.

“Do you want me to stop?” he murmurs.

Her _no_ comes out as a squeak.

His hand starts moving again. Up, up, up. She can already feel its warmth radiating through her underwear, though it’s just shy of touching it. “Do you want me to… finish what I started in the pool?”

Her only response is to widen her legs.

One finger dips to trace the line of her seam—she almost bucks when he first makes contact—and slowly brushes across the cotton. His touch is so delicate she can barely feel it, but that must be a lie, because it’s also surging throughout her entire body. He’s moving _so damn slowly_ that, though his finger had travelled a much longer distance this afternoon, it seems to take the same amount of time for it to reach the exact

same

spot.

“How close am I?” he breathes in her ear. He’d asked the same question this afternoon, but it feels far more dangerous now.

“C-close,” she says. The same answer.

Curl.

Straighten.

Curl again.

Another finger.

A circular motion—but only once.

It’s _torture_.

(It’s _ecstasy_.)

“How was that?” he says, breath tickling her neck.

“Not enough,” she replies, opening her thighs just a bit further.

Another circle. Slow as the first. “Do you think I can… make you come… just like this?”

“… You aren’t even—touching me.” There’s still cotton between his fingers and her—

A half circle. _Shit._ “I’m not?”

“Not—” the other half circle makes her gasp _directly_.

A wider circle this time, _slower_ , how is that _possible_? “Are you… sure about that?”

She whimpers.

“You don’t appreciate the added—” the fabric wrinkles— “friction?”

“Mm—Jaime—”

(She doesn’t want to _beg_ —)

“Hmm?”

“ _Faster._ ”

(—she _does_. _Fuck_.)

“I thought you wanted—” that _curling_ again— “time.”

_Bastard_ , she thinks, as she turns her head to capture his lips. She pours all the potency of _bastard_ into this kiss—it’s much better than the one she had given him in the shower—and some part of her doesn’t think Jaime should receive such a reward. That same part of her says that _she_ should. She’s enduring this treatment after all.

Jaime speeds up with this encouragement, but only slightly. She whines against his lips— _faster_. He speeds up again, but only _slightly, gods._ She pulls back. “Fuck, Jaime, will you just—”

“Just what?”

“Go _faster_.”

“This _is_ faster,” he shrugs. “Unless… you want to show me what I’m doing wrong.”

“How?” She doesn’t want to—to _touch herself_ in front of him right now.

Thankfully, Jaime doesn’t suggest that. “You could… guide me.”

She could.

Tentatively, Brienne reaches down to grasp his hand. She holds it still against herself at first, trying to get used to this arrangement. She thinks of embarrassment dissipating in the face of hunger. Then, she moves. She increases his speed this way, just enough to give her some relief, and it’s better already, but _strange_.

She supposes everything new must feel strange.

And everything about this is new.

It’s enough, for a while. She doesn’t need Jaime to go _that_ much faster, really—she finds she quite likes this languid motion. Eventually, though, she thinks _maybe, maybe that something extra—_

With one finger, she pulls one edge of the fabric towards her seam.

“Hmm,” is all Jaime says in acknowledgment. But then his fingers—the idle ones—gravitate towards her skin. They stroke across the hair there, skim her folds, return to her centre again. Then the elastic _catches_ , _tightens_ and…

An _ah_ escapes her.

“Too much?”

“A little.”

“How close?”

“Not—not quite—”

He removes his hand, and the fabric falls back into place somewhat. Before she can ask him why he stopped, he slips his hand beneath her waistband. “Let me,” he says, gentle rather than teasing like he was before. So she pulls her hand back, uses it to slide her dress up her belly, has the idea to reach under it and touch—

her hand falls.

“Why did you stop?” Jaime asks.

She shakes her head. She doesn’t want to touch herself in front of him right now.

He’s silent for a moment, though his fingers keep moving at that languid pace she’d set just now. Then, he lifts his head in the direction of her dress and says, “Can you—above your—”

It’s a request in fragments, but she understands. He wants to see them. Touch them, maybe, though his other hand is still stretched behind her shoulders. She pulls the fabric up above her breasts, and he gazes at them with that look that contains no disappointment, then—

then he _lowers his head_ —

The _ah_ that escapes her this time is pure pleasure.

She hadn’t understood at all. He hadn’t just wanted to see, or touch them.

Not with his hands, at least.

Jaime still proceeds at a leisurely pace—both his mouth and his fingers. There’s a sort of… synchronisation. It’s actually somewhat calming, this regularity, and she might appreciate it more if she weren’t otherwise preoccupied with not-so-calming sensations. Because the pressure is finally building now, and her other hand, the one between them that had found its way to his thigh at some point, gives him a light squeeze. He grunts, and slips his two fingers downwards and into her. She wonders why she hadn’t liked the feeling of them inside her back when they were in the shower, because now this _works_. His thumb is circling her bud, and those two fingers curl into her, unhurried, caressing her. Soon, she’s riding the crest of the wave, taking as much air as she can into her lungs. This time, she doesn’t shake. This time, every muscle in her body seems to go taut, and for a moment the world is perfectly still.

When all the weight returns to her body, she lets herself sink back into the couch. Into Jaime. Her dress falls from her chest to settle at her waist, but she doesn’t care to push it any farther down.

“Good?” he asks.

She nods. “Different.”

“Different?”

“Yeah. From just now. I mean, in a nice way. Strong, but… but soothing.”

“Interesting.”

She looks down to where her hand rests on his thigh, lets her eyes drift a little further up. “Do you want—”

Jaime follows her gaze. “Only if you want to,” he says. “Just let me wash my…” He flexes his fingers, coated with the evidence of her. “Or I suppose I could lick them clean—”

“Ew,” she says automatically.

He laughs as he stands from the couch. “Nothing I haven’t tasted before.”

It’s the truth. She ponders this truth— _Jaime knows the taste of me_ —while he heads into the bathroom. Not long after, he comes back with a towel—“just in case,” he murmurs as he sits down again—and she can’t help but notice that his shorts are unbuttoned.

The zip has slipped an inch lower.

Gingerly, she places her hand on his inner thigh.

“You’re sure?” he asks, though she’d had him in her fist before dinner.

“You’ve given me three already,” she reminds him. “I’ve given you none.”

“One,” he corrects her.

She laughs. “I don’t think that one counts.”

“I say it counts, so it does. And the others, too.”

“The others?”

“The ones I’ve had when I’ve thought of you.”

She sinks deeper into the couch, as if pinned by the weight of her own blush. “… Oh.”

He puts his hand on hers where it waits on his thigh. “So… have I given you more than three then? If we count those?”

“… Maybe,” she mumbles.

“What do you… imagine… when you do it?”

“I don’t know,” she squirms, and closes her legs. “Stuff.”

“Care to be more specific?”

“No.”

“Even if I could make that _stuff_ come true?”

She doesn’t tell him that he’s made at least some of it come true already. Instead, she nudges his hand away, and reaches for his fly.

“Avoidance,” he observes, looking down at his lap.

Hesitantly, she hooks a couple of fingers onto the waistband of his boxer briefs. “Do you really care about that right now?”

“I thought we wanted to communicate better.”

She pulls his underwear down, just far enough to make room for her hand. “Am I not allowed to have my secrets?” she replies, more defensive than coy.

“You can have secrets. I’m just suggesting that some goo— _ah_ —good could come of telling me.”

“I’ll consider it,” she says, wrapping her fingers around his shaft.

Up.

Down.

Slow.

He suppresses a groan. “Is this—retribution?”

“Should I go faster?” she asks, and she has no issue being coy now.

“Your choice.”

Okay then. She goes _slower_.

“I should have seen that— _oh_. That was—do that agai— _oh fuck_.”

Jaime leans back into the couch, and pushes his shorts down further. Then, he huffs. “Wait—do you mind if I—” and he lifts off the seat slightly, and she wants to laugh because _her hand is still wrapped around him_. He shoves his shorts and boxer briefs down to his knees, and collapses back into his seat.

“Do you want to keep going?” she asks, releasing him, and he smiles sheepishly at her while he kicks them off. As they settle back into position, he takes the opportunity to snake an arm behind her back, his hand curving towards her ribs, gradually gathering the material of her dress—

“What are you doing, Jaime?”

“Trying to—to reach—”

Brienne releases his cock again, to his dismay.

“Why—”

Then she lifts her dress over her head swiftly, before she can second-guess herself.

“Oh,” he says, softly, as she leans back into his arm. “Thank you.”

There’s a benefit to the unforgiving light of the bathroom, Brienne realises, and how Jaime’s seen her lit by it. Here, awash in softer, warmer light, she finds she isn’t so afraid of his scrutiny. The fear isn’t gone—she suspects it will take a long time for her to dull all her uncertainties—but it’s quieter now, and that’s better than she’d dared hope.

She takes his cock in hand once more, just as he grasps a nipple between his fingers. “Here,” he instructs, his free hand reaching for her other breast. “Move—lean back and—” He puts his lips to her neck, and between that and his hands on her chest—

“Jaime—can’t concentrate—”

“Doesn’t… matter,” he whispers just below her earlobe.

It really doesn’t. Not for her, and she assumes that letting him touch her must help things along for Jaime. How long is this supposed to take for him? He wasn’t fully hard, she thinks, when she first took him in hand. He’s certainly harder now. But it’s all a blur—his mouth on her neck, his hands all over her, the long sleeves of his crew neck ( _how is he still wearing it?_ ) rubbing against her skin. She can feel herself sitting deeper into the couch, her underwear still on, but—but _wet_ —and it’s an odd kind of symphony, their breaths, their small movements, all intermingling. Hand on cock, on nipple, on rib, on flesh. Three out of four hands occupied. She wishes there was something she could do with her free one, languishing at her side—

_Oh. I could always…_

She moves her hand into her lap.

_But I’ve already…_

She runs her fingers along her waistband.

_It feels unfair._

She slides them beneath the fabric.

_Doesn’t matter_.

Jaime chuckles into her neck when he notices. “Greedy.”

She can’t deny it, so she doesn’t. She does, however, still feel self-conscious about doing this in Jaime’s presence, and she’s grateful that he doesn’t say anything more than that one word. Her touch is indecisive at best, and won’t get her very far, but it’s something to make this symphony just a touch sweeter. She doesn’t have to do so for very long, anyway. Jaime’s close; he says so between kisses.

“Should I stop?” she asks. She doesn’t know if he’d thought of this only as a precursor for later. “Do you want to—”

“Your choice,” he says again.

She chooses to keep going, though she’s not sure why. It’s not to delay things—at this point, there’s very little left to be afraid of—so maybe she wanted to… to _know_ Jaime, in this particular way. How he likes to be touched, and for how long, and what happens when he—

It’s warm. For some reason, though there are plenty of other adjectives she could use to describe it, that’s all she can think of when he comes. Jaime tells her to keep going, so Brienne does. She discovers other things beyond that warmth. How he softens, for example.

Later, as she wipes her hand on the towel that he’d thought to bring from the bathroom, he nods his head in the direction of her thighs and asks: “How did you get on?” Then he lets out a short laugh. “Or _off_ , I should say.”

She rolls her eyes, and shakes her head. “I didn’t try very hard.”

“So… we’re only one of five down.”

She wants to say she’d forgotten about that, but she’d be lying. “Don’t you need some… time?”

He points to his cock. “This does.” He points to his mouth. “This doesn’t.”

“Again?” she says, and she hates that she can hear the anticipation in her own voice.

“Are you complaining?” he smirks.

She doesn’t answer.

She folds up the towel, then her dress, and stands up from the couch. Pushes her underwear down to her ankles, and steps out of it.

When she looks back at Jaime, he’s staring up at her with something like—

adoration.

“Come on then,” she tells him, then turns and takes a step towards the bedroom. Next thing she knows, Jaime’s arms are embracing her from behind, and then they’re _waddling_ forward together.

It’s ridiculous.

Not as ridiculous as Jaime still wearing his shirt.

“You’re usually a lot quicker to show some skin,” she teases.

“I’m usually the one wearing less. Thought I’d balance out the tally.”

“You can _try_. But I think you have too much of an exhibitionist streak.”

He reaches a hand up to palm at her breast. “You like that about me.”

“I do _not_ ,” she replies, pushing his hand away as they cross the threshold into the bedroom.

“Of course you do. I see the way you look at me.”

“Do you really?”

“All that _naked desire_ —”

“Oh _please_.”

“ _Oh please, Jaime, take everything off, I need to see all of it_ —”

She laughs and shoves him off her. “That sounds nothing like me!”

“Is a man not allowed his fantasies?” he grins, as he rounds the bed to pull back the bedspread.

“I’m _not_ fulfilling that one,” she says, crawling onto the bed from the opposite side.

“So the others are still on the table?”

She pauses. “That… depends on what they are,” she says, without meeting his eyes. Then she manoeuvres herself to face him, and falls onto her back. “Is this good?”

“Back a little? And maybe diagonally so I can—yeah.” Jaime kneels onto the bed, and reaches for the hem of his shirt. “Yes?” he asks.

“Your choice,” she parrots back at him, as nonchalantly as she can.

He lets the shirt go. “You know, I suppose it doesn’t matter if it stays on or off for this part.”

_He’s infuriating._ “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” He wraps his hands around her calves. “You _love_ me.”

Slowly, he moves his hands up to her knees, and pushes them into the air.

“On or off, Brienne,” he asks again.

“Your choice,” she lies, looking up to the ceiling.

“No.” He begins to part her knees, inch by agonising inch. “Tell me what you want.”

_Off_ , she whispers. Her thighs flinch as the air hits her folds.

“What was that?”

“ _Off_ , damn it, Jaime!”

His hands leave her knees to comply, and she feels utterly vulnerable, lying there with her legs suspended in the air.

“See?” Jaime says, throwing his shirt onto the floor behind him. “Was that so—”

In a split second, she grabs a pillow and flings it at him.

“Ow!” he exclaims, though he’d caught the pillow just fine.

“Now will you get on with it?”

He fluffs up the pillow. “Up,” he says, reaching down to tap her on the thigh.

“What for?”

“I’ll put this under you. It’ll help both of us, trust me. Now up.”

She lifts herself up, and he slides the pillow under her until it sits right beneath her hips. The way it props her up—the way she’s angled towards him—she feels, suddenly, _too_ exposed. She knows this makes no sense. _We’ve already done this_ , she tells herself, _he’s seen all there is to see._ But another voice interrupts, to tell her _it’s different_. He can see all the parts now that might have been hidden in shadow before, and she has to grip the sheets to stop herself from snapping her legs closed—

Jaime’s hands smooth across her thighs. “Hey. Come back,” he coaxes, and she forces herself to look at him. “You okay?”

She nods.

“Something wrong?”

“Just—need to get out of my own head, that’s all.”

“Anything I can do to make it better?” He casts his eyes down. “Besides—”

“Will you—will you need both hands?”

“I can make do with one. What are you thinking?”

“Maybe—hold my—” She looks to the side. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

“Tell me what you want, Brienne,” he says, echoing his words from before. Softer, this time.

“My hand,” she whispers. “Will you—just so I know—”

It _is_ stupid—surely his mouth on her should be proof enough of his existence. _But it’s different_ , she thinks again, _it’s Jaime._ Not that she can’t say so about the rest of his body, but she knows his hand like her own, knows the feeling of his hand in hers. She’s known it since the time they were just friends, when he’d injured his hand and after. It was the only time she’d allowed herself to feel him. The ridge of every knuckle, the flesh of his palm, the length of his fingers. Broken, healing, healed. She _knows_.

So does he.

Jaime adjusts himself into position, and extends his right hand under her thigh to interlace his fingers with hers. _Jaime. Jaime’s here. He won’t leave._

“Ready?” he asks.

She nods.

This time, he _savours_ her. In the shower, he was ravenous, devouring; now, he paces himself. It isn’t too achingly slow, but it’s not at all furious, either. He discovers parts of her that he hadn’t reached the first time—the pillow, she remembers, and arches her back into it. Now, with something to compare this experience to, she can see how inelegant and rushed he was before. How he’d had to slow to guide her to that second release. That seems to be the theme of their post-dinner activities—entirely unhurried, and indulgent, and intoxicating. It must be the wine, she thinks, the wine catching up with them. He stops, occasionally, whenever she makes a new sound. _Was that good?_ he asks, and her answer is almost always _yes_. She doesn’t begrudge him these pauses. She thinks the sensation of his questioning breath between her thighs is its own kind of pleasure.

Besides—when he repeats whatever he did that had made her feel so good, when he interweaves that with all the other little things, creates new melodies with them, she can’t say that she minds. If he has to pause to confirm that he should make space for them in his repertoire, then so be it.

At one point, she squeezes his hand. Not to remind herself that he’s there—she doesn’t need that as much as she’d feared—but just to sigh:

“This time’s better.”

He lifts his head. “Hmm?”

“Better than the shower.”

“I guess I’ll have to improve on my technique in that position.”

“Mm.”

“Are you close?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Do you want me to speed up?”

“Not really.”

She can feel his grin on her when he lowers his head again, and she smiles at the stretch of his lips tickling the insides of her thighs. A long time passes, or none at all, and she still isn’t anywhere near her peak. At this rate, she doesn’t know if those four promised orgasms will ever materialise, and she can’t bring herself to care. What she needs right now isn’t that kind of satisfaction. Jaime is giving her time, spending time on her, making time for her. And she is letting him, doing the same for him, here on this bed with his hand in hers. There is no greater luxury.

What is it that normal people do? How far do they go, and when? Perhaps she and Jaime are moving slow, glacially slow, by normal standards. But it doesn’t matter. They’re not normal people, and they don’t follow normal timelines. They haven’t, so far.

Why should that change now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I write smut it's just the same story (first time, established relationship), but like... increasingly detailed. Except the first time still hasn't happened in this story yet, if we define it by PIV. IT WILL HAPPEN NEXT CHAPTER I PROMISE.
> 
> Thanks to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) for beta reading this!


	3. Chapter 3

By the end of the night, they do get two more orgasms in, which brings Brienne’s total to five if they count the ones in the shower. Sated, they doze off in an entanglement of limbs without entirely following through on their plans for the evening. She wakes up around one in the morning, and wonders if she should wake Jaime too—she’d promised him they could tonight, and they didn’t—but he seems dead to the world. So she heads to the bathroom to wash up, switches off all the lights in the suite, and climbs back into bed. She is fast asleep before her guilt has any chance to take root.

When she next opens her eyes, it is only just starting to get light. A blue gauze settles over the room, over the sheets, over their bare bodies. She has a faint memory of Jaime getting out of bed at some point during the night—to go to the bathroom perhaps—but he hasn’t stirred since, and doesn’t seem to be stirring now. She pulls the covers up to her neck, snuggles closer into him, and then her thigh brushes against something—

_Huh._

She lifts the covers and looks down his body to check that she hadn’t imagined it.

She hadn’t.

It’s not that she’s never noticed it before, having shared his bed a number of times. But any time it’s happened—feeling it through layers of sweatpants or shorts, hers _and_ his—she’s always managed to ignore it. It was easy to do so, when Jaime never drew any attention to it.

Well—he doesn’t need to draw attention to it now. And she definitely can’t ignore it.

Jaime’s eyes are still closed, and his breathing still steady, so when he mumbles a _good morning_ , she almost jolts away from him.

“Good—good morning,” she says back.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“Too early for it to matter.”

“Mm.” He sinks deeper into his pillow.

“… Are you going back to sleep?”

He blinks his eyes open, and turns his head to her. “Do you _want_ me to go back to sleep?”

“I just—I thought—” and she glances at the gap under the covers.

“Ah.” He closes his eyes again. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’ll go away eventually.”

“Oh.”

The corners of his lips curl upwards. “Disappointed?”

“No,” she replies indignantly. “Just… we didn’t—last night.”

“We did quite a few things last night, if I recall.”

She nudges him in his ribs. “You know what I mean, Jaime.”

“Mm.” He shifts, stretches, settles. “We have time. We have this room till three.”

She doesn’t mean to stay silent for so long—she just isn’t quite sure what to say next—but Jaime opens his eyes once more, and flips onto his side to face her.

“Do you want to?” he asks.

“I…” She bites her lip. “I thought _you_ might want to.”

“Do you want to?” he asks again.

“It’s—it’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m awake now. Do you want to, Brienne?”

She isn’t sure why she finds this question so difficult to answer, until she thinks about the aftermath of The Big Fight. She’d told Jaime she didn’t know how to be wanted, and it is dawning on her now that she doesn’t quite know how to _want_ , either. They’re connected, she supposes—to want someone else, to want them _out loud_ , is to believe, on some level, that they might want you back. And it had taken her so long to believe— _really_ believe—in Jaime’s desire for her that she’d convinced herself not to want this particular thing in the meantime. _I’m not ready_ , she’d told him countless times in the first six months of their relationship. It had been so easy to say. Now—now that she _is_ ready—she’s stumbling in the face of such a simple question.

_Do you want to?_

_Do you want me?_

She’d felt bold, yesterday, after they’d gotten out of the pool, and when she’d taken him in her hand, and when she’d invited him into the bedroom. But that was _yesterday_. This is _today_.

She wants to find that courage again.

One word. One movement—that is all it takes.

She nods.

Jaime breaks into a smile, and she can see something like relief in it. _He wants to be wanted too_ , she thinks. What had he said, about the ways in which he felt accommodated by her? Replying to his texts, smiling at his jokes, letting him pick movies and restaurants. Letting him touch her. The small things. There is validation in them, she realises, more so than accommodation. In these small things, Jaime hears her say: _I want to be around you._

_I want you._

_Exactly as you are._

“How… how do you want me?” she asks. She’d meant the question practically, as in, _how should I position myself?_ But as the words leave her lips, it strikes her that she could just as easily have asked: _How much do you want me? In what ways?_

_Exactly as I am?_

_Tell me. I’m no longer afraid._

Jaime’s smile morphs into a smirk:

“Wet.”

All her thoughts vanish with that one word. “Seven hells,” she huffs, squeezing her thighs together. “I meant, what… position?” She has a vague idea of their options—she might have spent some time doing research online, not that she’ll mention that right now—but Jaime probably has a much better idea of his preferences. In any case, she hardly knows what to do with her body when she isn’t asleep or at the gym. Even any theoretical inclination with regard to sexual positions might not work out in practice.

“We can figure that out later,” he assures her. “We still need to work up to it, don’t we? Can’t just stick it in you and be done with it.”

She returns his crudeness with sarcasm. “Thank you Jaime, that’s very gallant of you.”

“You’re welcome. Mouth or fingers?”

“What?”

“You know what I mean.”

“F-fingers?”

“Are you hesitating because you actually want my mouth, or—”

“Fingers,” she affirms.

His first move isn’t to reach between her thighs. Instead, he slips his hand beneath her arm, dances his fingers across her ribs, her shoulder blade, her spine, her waist. Just as he reaches her hips, he stops and mutters: “Fuck.”

“What?”

He sighs and rolls away from her. “Condoms. They’re in my bag.” He slides out from beneath the covers, and she watches as he saunters across the room, a dark silhouette against the blue light of dawn, and heads into the walk-in closet. A few moments later, he re-emerges—she can just make out a few squares in his hand as she follows his silhouette back across the room again—and he tosses the condoms onto the bedside table before climbing back into bed. “Sorry. Didn’t want to have to do that in the middle of everything.”

“That’s okay.”

“Where was I?”

“Fingers.”

“Right. Fingers.”

This time, he brings her in close, trapping his hand between them. His lips meet hers as he feels for her bud, and she can’t stop herself from giggling as his fingers graze her skin. “That tickles,” she says into his teeth, which of course just makes him do it _more_. Eventually, though, his hand does find the space between her thighs, and she parts her legs as best she can while lying on her side. He massages her, lazily, and kisses her, lazily, and lazily her own hand reaches for his cock, tends to it just like he is tending to her. It takes less time than she expects for her body to respond; his fingers are gliding slickly over and into her soon enough.

“Do you need…?” he asks, and she shakes her head. She’d had five, last night, and she isn’t so desperate for another one now. So he reaches behind him to grab one of the foil packets from the table, and he’s about to tear it open when she finds herself saying:

“Can I try?”

She’s surprised at herself for offering, but she has to admit that she’s curious. Besides, she’ll have to figure it out sooner or later. Jaime hands the condom to her, and tosses back the covers so they can both see what she’s doing, even if just by the barest morning light. As she follows his instructions, she thinks of how they’d put sunscreen on each other yesterday—how she’d called her technique _functional_ , and his _sensual_. This seems, wondrously, like _both_ to her.

Of course, Jaime has to spoil the moment by joking that she’s the squire to his knight, and she sighs as she asks if he’s trying to imply that his cock is a sword, and then she regrets that immediately because his response is: _if the sheath fits, which it will_. It’s so terrible that she refuses to laugh even when he pokes her in the tummy, and then she finds herself rambling about whether the squire-and-knight analogy is really appropriate for this situation given the implied power imbalance of _that_ relationship, and Jaime concedes that perhaps it isn’t, _but also can we fuck now?_

“How do you want me?” she asks again, hoping he won’t give her another glib answer.

“Just on your back, maybe. For the first time.”

“Classic,” she says—out of nervousness, or stupidity—and grimaces. “Please forget that I just said that.”

“Never,” he grins. “I thought you hadn’t done this before?”

“I haven’t. But it’s—it’s general knowledge.” She tries not to think of all the illustrations she saw on her computer screen two nights ago. Did she close those tabs on her browser? She must have. Right?

“I suppose it is,” Jaime says knowingly.

She flops onto her back, widening her legs before he can interrogate her further. “Alright,” she announces, gesturing stiffly downwards with both hands. “You can—go ahead.”

“I fully intend to,” he answers, his lips twitching slightly in amusement.

How is this so much more awkward than last night? _Even after_ last night?

Carefully, he positions himself between her thighs, and his right hand reaches for her left without her asking. “Are you ready?” he teases. “Do you need a countdown?”

“No, thank you,” she laughs, bending one leg towards herself to make room for him. “Just—”

She feels it.

Him.

Jaime.

He enters her gradually. It soothes her, this patience. Deeper and deeper he goes, and she has to stop herself from wincing. It’s instinct, rather than a reaction to any real pain—she’d heard, long ago, that it would hurt the first time, and has never really forgotten it. But it’s only the memory of an expectation; she feels no pain now. A little discomfort, maybe, but not pain. It’s just… new. Strange.

She realises, abruptly, that she’s holding her breath, and lets out a long exhale. Jaime pauses to ask, “Is this okay?”

She nods. “I forgot to breathe.”

He smiles, and she tips her head towards the ceiling, takes deep breaths as he continues. When she feels him stop once more, she looks down.

He’s fully inside her.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

“I should be asking _you_ that question,” he chuckles.

“I asked first.”

“It feels good, Brienne. Feels right.”

His words make her blush. _You feel right. I belong with you._

“How do _you_ feel?” he asks now.

“Weird,” she replies, honestly. “I mean—it’s new.”

“Fair.” He moves his hips backwards, then enters her again, less gradually this time. “Still weird?”

“A little less weird.”

Back. Forth. “Still weird?”

“Are you going to ask me that every single time?” she laughs.

Back. “Maybe.”

Forth.

She gasps.

“Still weird?” he asks again, pitching his voice lower now.

She shakes her head. _No. It’s not weird at all._

“Good.”

The next time he enters her, he doesn’t ask. He brings his body lower, closer to her, kisses her. His right hand is still in her left; she grips it tighter. He increases his speed with each thrust, just a touch more each time, and she can feel her hips rising to meet his. _Steady_ , he whispers in her ear, and she tries, tries to match his rhythm, tries to wrest that control back from her rebellious body.

This body that has been the source of so much pain.

It isn’t now.

It’s—it’s a revelation. She’d thought she would feel defenseless, raw; that this would be something to bear; that she’d have to work doubly hard to silence all the traitorous whisperings of her mind. But it’s the _opposite_. There is nothing she can think of now beyond the joining of her body and his—this pleasure they can experience together. That’s all that matters in this moment. It’s not just a revelation, it’s almost a form of…

refuge.

This is how it feels to be free from her body. _Because_ of her body—hers and Jaime’s together.

Perhaps, later, this will feel like a dream. Perhaps she will struggle to believe that it happened, and that it will be possible again.

Now, though—now she drifts, swells, breathes.

Once they’ve fallen into sync, and maintained that rhythm for a while, Jaime releases her hand. She mumbles her dissent, though she knows what he intends to do—she can feel him reach between them.

“It’ll—feel better,” he says.

“Don’t. I want to— _ah_ —”

She can’t explain. There are too many words, and too few at the same time. Perhaps, if she could, what she would say is this: she wants to know how _this_ feels, _just this_ , just for now. Even if it’ll feel better another way. There’ll be a next time, and a next, to feel better. Nothing can feel better than that: there will be a next time. Now, she wants to remember how it sounds when they sigh together like this, _just because of this_.

His hand is back in hers.

 _Jaime_ , she says, again and again. _You’re here. You won’t leave._

 _Brienne_ , she hears, again and again. _You’re here. You won’t leave._

“I’m close,” she hears now, “are you—”

“Don’t worry,” she whispers. She moves her free hand down to feel his hips driving into hers, to feel that rhythm change, feel his muscles stiffen as he finds his release. She keeps her eyes on his face all the while, observes his expressions, delights in them. She’s glad she isn’t close herself—glad for that clarity. It’s what allows her to say:

_I love you._

_I am loved by you._

_And there is nothing to fear in that._

She doesn’t say it out loud. It doesn’t matter.

Jaime knows.

They fall back asleep soon after, just for an hour or so; then they wake, and come together again. The bedroom is bathed in early morning sunlight—bright, but gentle, not at all unforgiving. They are alive, and drunk on it. She recalls another Sunday morning, six months ago, when a light just like this one had picked out all the gold in his hair, and some of the grey, too. She had liked that, though she hadn’t been aware of it at the time. Liked that she could see the greys. Two years and two months had passed, and they were different people, and the same.

At ten, Jaime calls to order brunch—regular room service, this time—and Brienne rolls out of bed to search for the bathrobes she’d wanted to wear last night.

“You know,” she tells Jaime, when she comes back into the room with two bathrobes in her arms, “this is the first time that I’ve ever slept without any clothes on, that I can remember.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She hands one bathrobe to him, and starts putting hers on. “It’s definitely the longest time I’ve ever spent naked.”

“Well,” he smiles. “It has its benefits.”

She wraps the bathrobe around herself. “It does,” she replies offhandedly.

“Will you… consider it in future?”

“Maybe.” She tilts her head. “For special occasions.”

“How about… every day that ends with a ‘y’?”

She rolls her eyes, and smiles. Just the way he likes.

They take their time with brunch—Jaime ordered too much, of course—and before they know it, it’s noon. Noon means they only have three more hours left in this suite.

“Now is the time to reveal you secretly booked this suite for an additional night,” Brienne says, as she takes the last sip of her mimosa.

“Unfortunately, I did not. I thought that money would be better spent on a week-long trip to a tropical island.”

She puts her glass on the table. “As long as we have our own pool.”

“Well, well, well,” Jaime muses, leaning back in his chair. “Look who’s warmed up to that idea now.”

“I never objected to the trip,” she shrugs. “I was merely concerned that you wouldn’t give me sufficient notice.”

“Alright, now you have six months’ notice.”

“Let’s hope we don’t get sick of each other by then,” she laughs. She’d only meant it as a joke—fine, maybe she’d said it to prepare herself for the possibility—but Jaime doesn’t laugh along with her. She worries that she’s upset him, but he only says, quietly:

“I don’t think that will happen.”

Her fingers toy absently with the belt of her robe. “You’re so sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She feels something brush across her calf—Jaime’s foot, she realises.

“Hey,” he says, his toe punctuating the word. “Shall we make use of that giant bathtub?”

“Simultaneous pruning?” she quips, standing up from her chair.

He grins. “You said it, not me.”

Giant though that bathtub may be, it still takes some negotiating for them to settle comfortably into it. Ultimately, they decide the best approach is to have one of them sit in the water first, so that the other can sit in front of them, but they spend much too long squabbling over who should go where. That is, until Jaime takes it upon himself to climb into the bathtub despite Brienne’s protests, and sits himself snugly into one end, his arms outstretched along either side.

“I feel like I’m on a throne,” he proclaims. “Would you like to join your lord, my lady?”

The tub does seem like a throne, yes, but he doesn’t resemble a lord, or even a king. There is still some steam rising off the water, and amidst the faint swirls of mist, she can only think that Jaime looks half a god. She won’t tell him that, though. It’ll get to his head. She climbs in the tub instead, one foot, then the other, slow and careful lest she fall. As she attempts to sit into the water, she feels a puff of air behind her.

“Did you just… _blow on my ass_?” she demands.

“You make it sound so crass.”

“That’s because it _is_ ,” she insists, still trying to adjust herself.

“Perhaps,” Jaime says, holding her by the hips to stabilise her. “But I couldn’t help it. It’s just… here. In front of my face.”

“I hate you,” she grumbles, as she enters the water.

“No, you don’t. You love me.”

Brienne sighs as she sits back into Jaime, lines up her arms with his, lets their bodies mould together. It’s still a bit of a squeeze, but if she bends one leg, she can let the other float up to the surface of the water, and feel some of that weightlessness she experienced in the pool yesterday. Once she’s cozy, she tips her head backwards, leaning her right cheek into Jaime’s left. They stay here without a word for a long time.

“I’m glad,” Jaime says, finally. “Grateful, even.”

“Why?”

He slips his right arm from under hers, and runs his hand down her chest beneath the water. “Grateful that you let me see you like this.”

Brienne looks down at herself. Her body distorts beneath the ripples of the water, expanding and contracting from second to second. For a moment, she can pretend this is a bathtub of average size, that she can fit perfectly into, she and Jaime together. She sees the paleness of her skin next to his, how her freckles shiver and dissolve and emerge again.

“It’s the least I can do,” she replies. “The least I can give you.”

“Can’t it be something you give yourself, too?”

She shrugs, and doesn’t answer. In the still air, she can hear him contemplate her silence. _Let it go_ , she prays. _Let me enjoy this peace_.

Then, he says:

“Tell me what you hate about your body.”

She sighs. “Jaime—”

“If you’re open to doing that.”

“Why?”

“I just want to know how you see yourself. And don’t sugarcoat it. I know you don’t sugarcoat it in your mind.”

“Is this just so you can tell me how wrong I am?”

She doesn’t want to hear it—how he’ll refute each statement. It’ll all just sound like lies to her. She isn’t beautiful, and she doesn’t need to be told otherwise. It would be nothing more than a cruel joke.

“No.” Jaime kisses her on the cheek. “I promise I won’t. I just want to know.”

He keeps his promise. In fact, he goes further than that. As she describes herself to him, he can tell when she’s holding back, and encourages her not to. She tries to be academic about it—it’s the truth, or the truths she tells herself at least—but she has to pause, sometimes, to take a breath. Odd, how a word or phrase can overwhelm her, when she lives with these words and phrases all the time. Or perhaps these truths don’t live in her as words and phrases, and it’s only now, now that she has to say them out loud—

It hurts. It hurts, and she has to stop sometimes from how much it hurts. Whenever she does, Jaime kisses her cheek, her neck, her ear. She can hear him say: _I’m here, Brienne. I won’t leave._

When she’s done, and calm again, Jaime doesn’t speak. She prepares herself for platitudes; thinks that will hurt more than insults ever could.

Still, he doesn’t speak.

“That’s it?” she asks. “You’re not going to say anything?”

“I’m thinking.”

“I know what you’ll say.”

“Do you?”

“You’ll say you love me because of all of these things. Because they make me who I am, and so on.”

“But that’s not what you want to hear, is it?”

She’s the one that doesn’t speak, now.

“Alright,” Jaime exhales, and rests his hand on her belly. “These are the things I can say. I can say that I like your freckles, your shoulders, your lips, and your scars. If I had the talent, I could write poems or essays or songs about all of these things. I can tell you that it doesn’t bother me that you’re taller, and stronger, and heavier. I can tell you that it excites me.”

She is tensing already, and she knows Jaime can feel it. _You can’t take a compliment, can you?_ he will say; he’s said similar words to her before, in a past life. And it’s true—she can’t. It’s her fault that she can’t.

But that isn’t what Jaime says. “You’ll listen to all these things,” he continues. “And you’ll nod, because that’s what you think you’re supposed to do. Except it’ll ring empty inside you because _you_ don’t believe it. Yes, I could tell you that I love you because of all of those things. But what you’ll hear is I love you _in spite of them._ ”

He doesn’t speak in an accusatory tone, or an exhausted one. His voice is level, acknowledging. No, she hadn’t wanted him to say nice things, or unkind ones. But this speech—

She hadn’t realised it was something that she’d wanted to hear.

That she’d _needed_ to.

 _I do know you_ , Jaime had said, without using those words. _Listen to how I know you._

That is more precious than anything. More so even than _I love you_.

_I understand you. All of you._

_I still want to be with you._

There is no _because_ , or _in spite of_. There is no need to ask why, no overlooking of flaws. They are simply two people who found each other, and lost each other, and found each other again.

Sometimes you fall in love with someone who can’t love you back.

Sometimes you fall in love with someone who can.

“Jaime,” she whispers. She reaches beneath the water to grasp the hand that rests on her belly.

“Hmm?”

“Your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Tell me—tell me what you hate about yourself.”

“You already know.”

“Tell me again. All of it. Even the—the things you used to leave out back in the day.”

He adjusts the perch of his chin on her shoulder. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Even if I have to talk about—” he pauses, to swallow a name— “about my past?”

She grips his hand tighter. “I’m sure.”

So, she listens, just as he’d done for her. She trusts him to be honest—brutally so—and he is. When he stumbles, she lifts one hand to his cheek, holds it there; she turns her head to him, and plants kisses along his jaw. _Tell me, Jaime. Don’t be afraid._

He was right—she already knows most of it, and what she hadn’t known, she’d suspected already. His father; his ex-wife; how they’d treated him; what he’d done to please them anyway. All the things independent of that, and how he’d allowed them to fester. Still, she listens, and doesn’t try to soothe him, or reason with him. He’d known that wasn’t what she’d wanted, just now. He’d known because that isn’t what he wants, either.

The water has cooled by the time he is done, but they stay where they are nonetheless. There’s a little stand next to the tub on which they’ve left their phones; when she checks hers, it says it’s almost two. They’ll have to leave, soon, but there’s still a bit of time.

“I wish I had a speech for you,” she tells Jaime, settling her head against his shoulder once more.

“A speech?”

“Like what you said to me just now.”

“Oh. I don’t—I don’t need one. You listen, and that’s good enough.”

“I know. I just wish there was something more I could say.”

“Hmm.” He takes both her hands, and draws their arms around them in an embrace. It’s a strange mirroring, this cocoon, her body an echo of his. “Maybe you could… tell me that you love me.”

She would laugh if she hadn’t noticed his questioning tone. How many times had he declared that she loved him over the past week? He’d seemed so sure of it—taunting her with it—and now he’s asking her to say it once again.

Perhaps he’d taunted her not because he was sure, but because he needed to be.

“Alright,” she says. “I love you.”

“Tell me you won’t leave me,” he adds.

“I won’t leave you,” she complies.

“Tell me you’ll stay with me long enough to go on a week-long trip for our one-year anniversary.”

This time, she does laugh. “Yes, Jaime. I’ll stay with you till then.”

Jaime is quiet for a while. Then, he tightens their embrace as he asks:

“And… after?”

Two words. There is so much fear, and hope, contained within them. So much happiness they don’t yet know.

_What if it’s good?_

_It is._

_It will be._

Brienne turns her head towards him, and meets his eyes, emerald green. She remembers that he calls her blue ones astonishing, and thinks that is one compliment she can wholeheartedly accept. She presses her lips to his, softly—just once. It is a kiss sweet with promise, with patience, with love.

“And after,” she tells him. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This verse hasn't nodded to canon very much at all, but when I planned out the second arc, I knew I had to include a bath scene somehow. And I really like the idea that it comes after their relationship has been established rather than at the start of it, while still signifying a turning point for them. 
> 
> And with that, this story is now complete. Thank you so much for following this fic that I never thought I'd write. It's been very cathartic and healing for personal reasons, and I hope it's been satisfying for you too, even if it was painful along the way. Now that I've wrapped this up, I'm probably going to take a break from fic writing for a bit besides submitting my story for the JB Fic Exchange in August. I went from writing basically no fic to writing almost 300k words in the past year alone, and I think I need to take some time to recalibrate, though I have a couple of ideas that I hope I can still realise in future!
> 
> Thanks again to [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roccolinde) and [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat) for all the handholding over the past three months!


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